


Phone Calls

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, takes place after bruce came back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 14:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13706799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: After Bruce comes back from being lost in time, he finds hundreds of messages waiting for him on his answering machine, all from Tim.





	Phone Calls

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/post/163693004323/while-bruce-was-lost-in-time-tim-would-call-his) Tumblr post I made a while ago.

Some things never change, Bruce supposed. 

Don't get him wrong, he understood that most things did, like how it had been one season when he'd left and another one when he'd returned. Like how Damian had through some miracle named Dick Grayson lost most of his aggression during the time in which he was under Dick’s care. Like how Tim looked like a completely different person from whom he'd been before Bruce "died" to whom he was now. Paler skin; longer hair, now brushing his shoulders; darker circles under his eyes as though he hadn't experienced a sound night of sleep in months. 

Still, certain things never change in spite of how much time has passed. Like Bruce's study, for example. 

Being back in his study was a breath of fresh air compared to everything that had happened over the past months. The room still retained that pleasantly musty smell; like leather and old books. The desk chair hadn't been moved from the spot in which Bruce had last sat in it, almost a year ago. Nothing on the desk had been disturbed, not a pencil nor paper shifted in the slightest. 

The only thing changed was the worn leather sofa against the wall, which looked more used and had an unfamiliar wool blanket thrown over the back, as though someone had spent more than a few lonely nights curled up in here, taking in the warm familiarity of the room. But besides that one detail, the room was exactly the same as when he'd left it. 

After coming back and finding so many things changed, it was comforting to know that the sanctity of Bruce's study hadn't been disturbed while he was away. 

Sighing heavily, Bruce dropped into the desk chair, pleased by the familiarity. After being lost in time for so long, it was good to know that his study was something that would never change. 

The only reason he'd come here in the first place was to find an old case file he'd been working on shortly before his supposed death, before life had turned to tragedy. He'd been hoping to pick up where he'd left off, get back into normality as soon as possible. 

His eyes swept the desk, but rather than a Manila folder, something else caught his eye. A small red light glowed dimly on his office phone, indicating unheard messages. One hundred and twelve, to be exact, if the glowing green numbers on the screen were anything to go off of, which was admittedly odd.  

Who would have called him while he was gone? This was one of the phones he owned that most people didn’t know about, the only ones being his family and Lucius, and Lucius usually called his phone at WE anyway. There was no reason for him to have so many messages on a phone he barely used to begin with.    
  
Brow furrowed, Bruce picked up the receiver and put it to his ear, pressing the button on the answeing machine to hear the messages, figuring it was just a really dedicated wrong number who hadn't gotten the hint.    
  
*beep*

Bruce froze when a familiar voice rang through the receiver. 

_ “Hey, Bruce, it’s Tim.” _

What was Tim doing calling Bruce's private number during a time in which he was thought to be dead? And why on earth did Tim sound so...Bruce didn’t know how to describe it.   
  
Exhausted? Morose? From those four words alone, Bruce could hear the misery in Tim's voice. It was rough, like he hasn’t slept in a while, and almost monotonous as though he didn't even have the energy to change that. It sounded like the voice of someone who had lost everything, but Bruce supposed that wasn't too far off.    
  
Feeling a knot grow in the pit of his stomach, Bruce kept listening.   
  
_“So, uh, Dick made Damian Robin,”_ Tim continued. _“He just…fired me. Just like that.”_   
  
_Oh._ This must have been after that time that no one speaks about anymore. When Dick took Robin away from Tim. When Tim's downward spiral began, which conveniently had never been touched upon when Bruce was getting caught back up to speed, like everyone had made the silent decision to never again speak of it.    
  
Tim swallowed thickly. _“You know, I remember that time when you said that Robin would never be taken away from me, but I guess things are different now. And now...Now I don’t really know what I’m going to do.”_ A heavy, tired sigh.   
__  
_“If you were here I’d probably just go ask you for advice, but that’s not really an option anymore, huh?”_ He chuckled, but it was empty. Humorless. Like he was restraining himself from turning it into a sob.   
  
_“…I thought the others would be on my side,”_ he said quietly, _“Help me try to find you, but they think I’m just grieving. They won’t even let me explain. And the funny thing is I don’t blame them, because the more I tell myself again and again that you’re out there somewhere, the more it sounds like I’m just crazy. And to be honest, I probably am, but…”_ Was that a sniffle? _“I know you’re alive. They don’t believe me, but I know.”_ __  
  
Oh, God...Tim...   
  
_ “Uh, I have to go, so… Bye, Bruce.” _   
  
*click*   
  
Bruce didn’t know what to think. Since he’d gotten back, Tim had been happy, or at least, Bruce assumed he was.    
  
But the way he sounded during that call, the lump Bruce could practically hear in his throat, the slow tempo of his words like he hadn’t had a proper night’s rest in weeks, all it did was make Bruce wonder what exactly his disappearance had done to him. To his mind.    
  
Before he could dwell longer, the line beeped again, playing the next message.    
  
This time there was noise in the background. Muted muffling and voices, sounding an awful lot like the bustling he had grown used to from the fifteenth floor at WE. Tim must have been making the call from his office this time.   
__  
_“Hi, Bruce. Me again. Tim. It’s already been a month since you’ve been gone. Or, at least I think it is. If I'm being honest, I don’t really know anymore.”_ There was a questioning tone in his voice, like he genuinely had no idea how long it had been but no energy to find out.   
  
_“I’m still searching, in case you were wondering,”_ Tim said. _“I haven’t given up yet. I_ won’t _give up. Everyone else has, but…I dunno, I guess they can afford to. They have other things to keep them going, so I guess they can afford to accept that you’re gone. Don’t know if that says more about them or me.“_ A halfhearted snort.   
  
A new voice, now, in the background. It was a woman, young, judging by her voice. She asked Tim who he was talking to, and Bruce heard Tim’s breath stutter, almost undetected.    
  
_“Nobody, Tam. Just--_ _…It's nobody,”_ he said finally.   
  
Back into the phone this time: _“I-I gotta go, so uh, talk to you later.”_   
  
*click*   
  
The rest of the messages were more of the same, each making Bruce’s concern grow. Tim talked about anything and everything. His progress with the search, dismantling the League of Assassins, small things that happened during his day.   
  
Sometimes they were lighthearted, which was a welcome change. Sometimes...less so. But the one common factor among all of them was the ache Bruce could hear in Tim’s voice, making him wonder if his death had been worse for Tim than it had been even for himself. He'd been so caught up in his own recovery and getting back to his job protecting Gotham that he hadn't even thought to make sure Tim was okay, a mistake he regretted more than anything.    
  
Tim sounded like someone who’d lost all hope yet still went on despite the grief. Despite the loss. Despite the pain.   
  
He was steadily getting worse with each day that passed, each new message only making Bruce more sure of that.   
  
Had anyone noticed? Had anyone cared? Had anyone realized that Bruce’s son was falling apart at the seams and try to help him?    
  
Bruce didn’t want to know the answer, because a dark voice in the back of his head told him that no, they hadn’t.    
  
*beep* 

_Message eighty-seven,_  Bruce's mind supplied, and only seconds in, he could tell it was the worst one yet.   
  
_ “Hey, Bruce. It’s Tim again.” _   
  
Tim sounded awful. His voice was croaky, uneven, like he couldn’t push down the emotion enough to keep it under control and had simply given up on trying.    
  
Bruce couldn’t explain it, but something about the way he spoke told Bruce that things were far from okay. The pit in his stomach sank further.    
  
_“I can't remember what number message this is,"_  Tim mused. " _Doesn’t really matter, I guess.”_ A brush of fabric, like he was shrugging.   
  
_“So, uh, I have to leave in a few hours. I’m gonna fight Ra’s."_  Bruce swallowed. He'd already heard this story, and it hadn't ended well. _"If you were here you’d probably tell me not to, because I’ll get killed. But you’re not here, and--and that’s why I have to.”_ A long pause, filled only with Tim’s breathing, occasionally stuttering on each intake of breath.   
__  
_“You’d be right, though. I know I’m no match for him, and I know I won’t last for long, so that means I’ll probably die tonight. But even if he does kill me…”_ Tim’s voice cracked, a note of emotion shining through the stone. He took a deep breath, grounding himself.   
  
_“Even—even if I die tonight, I just want you to know that...it’ll be worth it.”_ He cleared his throat weakly. _“So, uh, goodbye, I guess. And...if this is my last message and I do die, then I just want you to know—“_ A voice crack, followed by a shaky breath. _“I just want you to know that I’m okay with it. Because—“_ This time he couldn’t hold back the sob that broke through. _“Because at least it’s me rather than you,”_ he said, choked.   
  
There was silence on the line, nothing but Tim’s breathing and Bruce’s own, growing more unsteady as the seconds ticked on. Then, _“…Goodbye, Bruce.”_   
  
*click*   
  
Bruce listened to dozens more messages like this, each worse than the last.   
  
When the last message finally clicked off and silence once again filled the room, Bruce sat there with his head in his hands, wondering what he was supposed to do now. 

All this pain Tim carried, and he'd had no idea.  Sure, he'd known that things couldn’t have been great while he was gone; Tim had just lost a second father and an identity all at once. But Bruce had never imagined...had never  _wanted_ to imagine...   
  
Taking a deep breath, Bruce leaned over the desk toward the answering machine and cleared all the messages, then, after a moment of hesitation, picked up the receiver again to call Tim.


End file.
